


The Pen is Mightier

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5887720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke finds some bathroom graffiti about Bellamy, and when she shows him a picture it has unexpected results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pen is Mightier

**Author's Note:**

> The inspiration for this came from one of the lines in "Best I Ever Had" by Gavin DeGraw. That song just makes me happy and basically everything makes me think of Bellarke.

Clarke spends a lot of time at Bellamy’s pub, she just doesn’t spend a lot of time in its public restroom. 

As someone who is friends with almost every bartender that works there, she usually helps herself to the employee bathroom in the back, which is much cleaner and better lit, and has way less of a line than the customer restroom. She also helps herself to the employee microwave and employee mini fridge, but only when she’s bringing enough to share with Bellamy. Sometimes he forgets to eat.

Unfortunately for her, one day someone (she’s guessing Murphy) clogs the good toilet, so she ends up having to go in one of the more questionable stalls like the other peasants. And that’s when she sees it.

‘It’ being a message tucked in among the rest of the permanent marker graffiti that reads,  _ need to start a support group for everyone as affected as I am by Hot Bartender’s freckles. #swoon. _ Underneath, in a different hand, someone has written,  _ I’ll be the treasurer.  _ And then a third person has added,  _ can anyone confirm that he is as good in bed as he looks like he’d be? asking for a friend. _

Clarke snickers and snaps a picture, texting it to Bellamy (because she knows all the bartenders and it’s definitely about him) with a bunch of crying laughing emoji.

They’re not wrong. He’s so hot it’s bad for their friendship sometimes, like when Clarke can’t concentrate on anything he’s saying because he’s just gotten back from the gym or because she’s spent the night with Octavia and he’s all rumpled and sleepy-looking in his pajamas and old man glasses. Bellamy just doesn’t know that’s how Clarke feels, so the crying laughing emoji is really her best option.

When she gets out of the bathroom, he’s still where she’d left him– behind the bar, choosing songs for a new playlist because Clarke has been making fun of him for all the Fall Out Boy he’d put on the last one– but his eyes keep flickering to the bathroom door. When he sees that she’s coming back, he straightens and starts straightening the bottles in front of him. It’s one of his nervous tics.

“Hot Bartender, huh?” He says when she slides back onto her stool. He’s smirking, but there’s more of an edge to it than there usually is.

“Hey, any publicity is good publicity, right?”

“I’m not sure I want to date a girl whose news forum is a bathroom stall.”

“I’m not sure any of those girls are exactly looking to date you,” Clarke points out, and he looks down, moving to wipe down the already clean counter. It’s four in the afternoon; the pub is almost empty and he makes a point of keeping his area spotless. She’s pretty sure he’s just avoiding eye contact. “Are you upset about this?” She asks, her mind shifting into problem-solving mode. “Because I can bring my acrylics later and paint a really realistic dick on top of it.”

This makes him laugh, which gratifies her more than she cares to admit.

“It’s not a big deal. I’ve gotten pretty good at treading the line between not leading girls on and still being charming enough to get decent tips.”

“There’s a difference between leading girls on and being clear that you’re only interested in a one-time thing,” Clarke muses, leaning forward on her elbows. Bellamy hasn’t been taking girls home as often as he used to, but she hadn’t really noticed that she was keeping track until now. 

“That’s true,” he says, and his voice sounds a little strained. He moves on before she can analyze it too deeply. “You could at least do me a solid, take the sharpie I know you have in your purse, and tell the world I’ve ruined you for all other men or something.”

“I’m not sure the bathroom stall reaches quite that wide an audience,” Clarke laughs. “Besides, I’m a firm believer in truth in advertising.”

He freezes where he’s sweeping the same spot repeatedly.

“So what you’re saying,” he says, moving slowly to set the broom down. “Is that you’d need proof?”

And that’s how she ends up getting fingered by her best friend in the supply closet at his workplace. 

It’s not like she didn’t know how she felt about him. She met him through her friend Miller, and there was never really a time when she wasn’t attracted to him. Pretty quickly, she discovered that he’s considerate and smart and deeply attached to his friends, but he doesn’t quite know how to express it beyond sarcasm and practical assistance.

For instance, when Lexa broke up with her, Bellamy brought over ice cream, tequila, two seasons of  _ Friends _ so they could heckle whenever Ross came on screen, and changed her water filters. Despite the pain she was going through, it’s one of the nights that stands out in her memory when she thinks about how sure she is that Bellamy is in her life for good, whether or not he ever finds out she’s crazy about him.

She figured if anything ever happened between them, it would come in the wake of a confession of feelings, and that it would be a real relationship. She never thought they would begin with a casual, semi-public hookup, but that is indeed what happens.

“What’s the verdict?” He asks, his thumb stroking the side of her neck as she comes down. Her hands are still gripping his shoulders, her head tipped back against the closed door. When he speaks, she can feel the rumble of his voice through his chest, and she laughs.

“You couldn’t tell what the verdict was?”

“Affirmation would be nice.”

“I don’t know if you’ve ruined me for all other men,” Clarke says, loosening her grip. “But you are very, very good at what you just did.”

“Damn straight,” he says, smug, though he does kiss her on the jaw before he pulls away. “I need to get back to the bar or my boss will kill me, but take as long as you need.”

And then he’s gone.

When she emerges, he’s tending to customers. She gathers her things and waves at him to let him know she’s heading home, like she would at the end of any time they hang out. Like her entire world wasn’t just turned upside down. Like her mind isn’t replaying every second and wondering what it all means.

She stops by the bathroom on her way out and pens in at the bottom of the graffiti conversation,  _ He’s good with his hands. And I don’t mean pouring drinks, _ and texts him another picture.

By the time he responds, she’s back at home and slowly devolving into insanity. She doesn’t think he was just on an ego trip, but she’s not sure she’ll ever get a repeat performance. Until her phone buzzes on the couch next to her.

_ I’m not JUST good with my hands. _

_ In case you were wondering. _

She stares at the texts for a long breath, screws up her courage, and replies,  _ Am I supposed to take your word for it? _

He must have been waiting by his phone, because it’s not long before he sends back,  _ I can come over in twenty. _

She types,  _ See you then _ , hits send, and promptly flings her phone across the room.

Part of her is terrified he’ll want to  _ talk _ when he gets there. She’s sure he’ll say something sincere that will break her heart, like ‘I hope this doesn’t affect our friendship’ or ‘You of all people know I’m not looking for anything serious right now’ or any number of things. She’s aware that she’s setting herself up for a lot more pain than Lexa left her with, but she’s seen the way he looks at her when she’s all dressed up to go out with Octavia, and she’s pretty sure that if she just doesn’t give him the chance to say any of those things, her heart can stay mostly in tact.

It’s not a good plan, but it is a plan.

And it’s one she puts into effect immediately. As soon as she opens the door to let him in, she pulls him close by the front of his shirt and drags his mouth down to hers. He makes a noise caught somewhere between surprise and appreciation and gathers her into his arms the way she’s always kind of wanted him to.

One of his hands runs just up under her shirt, settling on the skin at the curve of her waist. The other cups her jaw, tilting her head to a dizzying angle, and she’s very sure he’s on the same page as she is: that one taste would never be enough.

The flaw in her plan becomes apparent when they wind up tangled together in her blankets, her head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her to hold her close. She’s tracing patterns on his chest and trying to come up with a way to distract him or change the subject before he can ask her what it means. Or worse, tell her.

She doesn’t get there fast enough.

“Clarke–”

“Are you hungry?” She pushes herself up, starting to swing her legs around to the side of the bed, but he touches her arm–  _ touches _ it, doesn’t even really grasp it– and she’s frozen.

“Clarke–”

“Or we can watch the next episode of Criminal Minds? I know that’s doing Netflix and chill backwards and I know we were supposed to wait for Octavia, but–”

“Clarke."

His hand drifts down to wrap around her wrist, and his thumb strokes the soft skin there. It’s a question and a comfort all at once.

“I really need you not to tell me that this is about the fact that you haven’t gone home with anyone in months or about proving a point. You and I go way beyond the norm to prove ourselves to each other. But if this is about getting a good review on the bathroom wall, I need you to go and not say anything, and we can pretend this never–”

“Are you through?”

“Clearly not. You interrup–”

“Clarke.”

He sits up, his hand sliding to the crease of her elbow, and tugs her gently toward him.

“I thought we understood each other,” he says, and her heart wrenches painfully. “I never cared what was written about me on the bathroom wall. I haven’t been taking girls home because I’m not looking for a one-time thing. And I’m not looking for anyone else. You’re all I see.” She feels herself melting into him, a thrill running down her spine when his hand ghosts across her back to pull her back in. “I thought you knew that after this afternoon.”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

“Everybody else knew,” he grumbles, but he sounds too happy for it to really have much impact.

“I’m not everybody else.”

“No,” he says, and now he definitely sounds happy. “You’re not.”

“You know how I feel, right? As long as we’re on the subject.”

“I think I know. But like I said before, verbal affirmation is always appreciated. Or non-verbal.”

She grins against the skin of his neck and feels his pulse stutter.

“I like you a lot,” she says, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You’re my best friend.” Her lips find his cheek. “I generally think you’re the best all around.” They land at the corner of his mouth this time, and he chases her lips with his. She’s so happy, her heart so full, she thinks she might burst. “I might be biased, though.”

The next time she goes to the bar, she brings her sharpie and turns the commiseration over Bellamy’s hotness into a mural of stars and planets and astronauts floating into space. When she’s finished, she can hardly make out the original words at all. It’s pretty badass and she texts yet another picture to Bellamy. 

When he sees it, he smiles at her across the bar and says, “It’s not like I need the publicity anymore, anyway.”

If she has it her way, he never will again. 

And he never does.


End file.
